Hellbent for brick, corn, and chickenwire!

And we're off for Iowa tonight: Snake Alley tomorrow, Melon Cities on Sunday (speed bump and all), and then Quad Cities - The Cagematch turns 45 this year! - on Memorial Day. It will be a battle.




Holy shit, 15 laps in the belly of the beast with the Category 3s. Ready or not, this is gonna be painful test of the will.



Melon is going to be fun. That speedbump is some stupid shit, but it is my type of race, and I just need to summon the confidence to go 110% when it's time. I do and that hill is mine.

Quad Cities was my breakout race last year. Technical and fast, it's not gonna be the same as the Cat 4, and will be dicey in the corners unless it stays strung out and breaks up early. I'll probably register for the Master's as well just prior to the 3s, and complete half of that for a warm-up and race-pace course recon.

Thursday Hate: the week's sauce

Streetsweepers.

Niles.

A haircut so bad he must be developmentally disabled. But not.

Phantom bike noises.

If I ask you a question to which everyone else CC'd on the email needs the answer, fucking hit "reply all" please. (And no Michael, this is not just you. For some reason, five people made my life more difficult doing this this week.)

The number of ingredients in a McDonald's apple danish.

Las Vegas real estate agents that follow me on Twitter. Then I know you personally and follow you on twitter, but you don't refollow. Maybe I post a lot, but isn't that the point?

Wrong: "The Tour de France." "Tour de [American City]" Right: "Le" and "of". On est français. The other is English.

Barak Obama?! Are you still fucking here? You've been Katrina-ed. Jesus Christ...George fucking BUSH would've nuked the goddamn thing two weeks ago.

Oh, yeah. And people who "boycott" BP. Especially those of you sittin - ALONE - in your SUV for six light cycles to get through one intersection. You don't realize that BP sells much of their oil to other refiners, do you? You want to reduce the likelihood of catastrophes like this from happening again? USE LESS. (Apologies to @stevevance)

Thursday Hate: I'm with Floyd

A comment posted in response to Adam Myerson's brilliant blog/essay today on Floyd Landis' stunning (to some) confession that he did indeed use performance-enhancing drugs:

Landis is a sucker - cool if he wants to call himself out but naming names is b.s. - a snitch. He better have some serious proof too if he’s going to start this. My guess is that he’s run out of $$$...again and is looking for another book deal. Chump.

I'm sorry, but are you mad because you bought his book or donated to his Fairness Fund thinking that he was actually innocent? Are you mad because he's implicating your other heroes, George and Levi?

If so, it ain't Floyd that's the chump.

Firstly, it was called the Floyd Fairness Fund. Not the Floyd Innocence Fund. And was aptly named. Landis was being made the scapegoat. This commenter would be just as pissy and indignant if Floyd had named names when he was busted in 2006. It has nothing to do with his timing. It's that he's blowing the whistle at all.

As a friend of mine pointed out, Jose Canseco had little credibility, as well. Everyone said he was full of it, that he was all sour grapes, that he should keep his mouth shut because he had no proof. It literally required an act of Congress (which had much better things to do) but everything he said about drugs in baseball was all true.

Anyone who’s ever ridden under Bruyneel and Armstrong are immediately suspect. When Vaughters bolted, anyone who stayed on was doping in my book. If you believe that Bruyneel is the Grand Moff Tarkin and Armstrong the Darth Vadar of doping, I don’t see how the hell you can think anyone who raced was them was clean during that time.

What would you have done? After having reaching the absolute pinnacle of your chosen profession, only to see it all stripped away only because of doing what everybody else was doing? Could you look your mom in the eye and tell her the truth? How can you even fucking answer that question? None of us can even imagine how tough the choice would be to walk away from cycling once introduced to the truth of how the pros really do it, after sacrificing everything to get to that point.

Because at that point, choosing to dope is just one small link in a much longer chain. And until that day, which thankfully will never come for nearly all of us, I’ll reserve my judgment of whether dopers are bad people or not.

Yes, we can point to Vaughters, Pate, or Millar as beacons amid this darkness. Doping sucks, but as long as you're watching the races, and cheering on your heroes, and patronizing the sponsors who want winners, sponsors who look the other way, along with race officials who take bribes...you all are complicit in it, and you shouldn't act so fucking shocked.

So finally, after everybody else who's as guilty as Floyd turned their backs on him with magnanimous proclamations of their hope for his innocence, Floyd has finally decided to come clean, because why should he continue to cover for them?

I for one applaud it. Others, not so much, apparently.

A “snitch?” Really? We all love to take a stand and to say we want doping gone. But when it comes time to do the requisite dirty work - overturning rocks and naming names - we hang those that dare - the whistle blowers - out to dry.

We all want the truth. Until that truth hurts us.

Thursday Hate: everybody poops (except you)

People who are embarrassed to poop when someone else is in the restroom.

If you are afraid of making pooping noises in the stall, and therefore are going to sit in there and not make a sound the entire time anyone else is in the men's room, such as when I spent approximately nine minutes changing into my cycling clothes today ...why do you attempt to poop at work in the first place??

So I'm thinking in a high traffic restroom, you've gotta be in there for, what...three, four hours a day? Waiting for whoever else is in there to just leave already so you can free a hostage before the next person walks in? And then wait another 10 minutes to take care of the fart that didn't make it out? God knows when you'll have time to wipe!

"Ewwwwww, gross!!! Someone is shitting and wiping their shitty ass...in the MEN'S ROOM! Oh, my GAWD somebody call Human Resources!"

Do you have low-pooping self-esteem? Do you think you are the grossest pooper ever? As if no one else makes disgusting noises when taking a shit? God I hope not, for your sake. And if you are the grossest pooper ever, then...forget I said anything and I thank you for your prudence.

(Do women do this, too?)

What takes me back to the District

What could possibly top a scene like the one I took in towards the end of my post-Asheville vacation to Washington, D.C. to see friends and family...

I was sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, wishing my dad a happy birthday while scattered storms meandered past The General's monolith, interspersed with golden rays of evening sun. The faint but powerful driving rhythm of bass and drums could be heard across the reflecting pool, its surface brushed in waves by unseen fingers of air, beneath the familiar melody of "Message in a Bottle."

I'd left Sting, my friends, and Earth Day to fulfill what must be done on a trip to DC: to read Jefferson's and Lincoln's timeless words, to see the 58,000 names, to think for myself. No matter how many times I come back...it must be done. I began walking after standing and sitting for hours on the grass between the museums, while all matter of legends spoke and sang to us, from Jesse Jackson to Booker T, but finally my stiff and injured back could take no more. While Sting brought his pomposity to the stage I could get my 90 minute pilgrimage accomplished, and then meet everyone again for dinner.

And there I was, on those steps, above that inspiring vista, when two Marine helicopters, one almost certainly carrying the President, approached from the north and banked east, just above me, towards the Mall and the crowd. And as it turned south again, a great roar rose up from the people, assembled on America's lawn, letting loose their approval at this salute to their Earth Day celebration.

What could top that, I ask you.

Perhaps a bike ride on a misty Saturday on a rented beach cruiser with a friend at my side. Down the lanes, both marked and unmarked, over the crushed gravel in Lafayette Park, and posing for a picture in front of the White House. Up Capitol Hill, past police and tourists and senate staffers. And down, down past colorful townhomes and walk ups, down past bodegas and bars. Down the hill toward the mouth of Anacostia to the Navy Yards, a neighborhood in flux, perhaps turmoil from economic uncertainty, but a destination the less. The new Nationals Park stands almost timeless amid it's surroundings, not trying to be anything its not, and in the process being much more. A familiar venue without any pretension beyond the $8 beer, its structure is a testament to understatement. That, and the idea racing Presidents is just as good as racing Sausages.

What could top that, I ask you.

Perhaps, topping all of that, is the first moments you see your friends and family, after many months...appearing in the gloam, looking up over a freshly lit cigarette, or popping through a doorway, with a smile for you and the promise of another year's memories.

Altitude effects attitude

Off to Asheville. I'll be thinking of you through the two hours tunnel vision while I climb this thing on Sunday.

So long, suckers! (wait...)

Going long

I've been itching some long miles, really long and slogging miles, since I came back from Georgia a bit empty-handed last February.

One of the best options for getting in a century out of Chicago is to head to the state line, as an extension off of the "Three Sisters" route that is popular on the XXX Racing team ride. My first experience with this wasn't until 2009 when Coach Randy led a fairly large group to the border last April. It was a beautiful, sunny spring day. Once past the spirited attacks through the rollers north of highway 21, aka Milwaukee Ave and onto highway 120, we settled into a pleasant rhythm, letting the base miles pile on like durable coats of paint.

We coasted through the Glencoe sprint, only to give it the afterburner in a scorching leadout train all the way down from Tower to B'hai Temple, where Cesar and Ed jumped out of the line, already moving above 30 plus, to claim the final hill for themselves.

I'd picked the day before Easter, April 3rd, as our "long day" this year. Coach was out of town for the holiday, and with racing both the weeks before and after, and then Asheville camp and the following recovery weekend, April was done. No matter then weather, April 3rd would have to be it.

So of course, the day could not have started out more ominously. The rain literally started to fall just as I stepped outside. I was dressed for wet success however, and undaunted, I met the small team contingent at Warren Park and we rode without incident, no drop, to Highland Park.

There, after coffee and some snacks, around 15 us headed north, unsure just how far we'd make it. I was stonewall set for going the distance, but rain came down in heavy, splattery drops. After leading out the University Hill sprint for some jittery newbs, we shed a few returners, more at the "Old School" turn off, and headed north into a driving rain.

It was Diddy, Tyler, Emanuele, an ex-pro cross country dirtbagger named John with calves the size of my thighs (and I'm constantly told I have the biggest legs on the team), one more who's name escapes me, and myself. We stopped at the Cemetery loop for a piss and to try to unsuccessfully get the contacts under my powertap computer dry - it hadn't been giving a reading for the last five miles or so - and I nervously thought I would get out-voted to press on. But everyone was still game, and soon we were splintering apart in "Three Sisters."

All I knew is that I'd attack John after the next roller. The next roller. The next one. And then we ran out of rollers. At the beginning he just put that chain in the 15-tooth cog and churned an 80ish cadence while trying to ride me off his wheel. For the entire set of rollers I was pegged at 178 bpm and couldn't coax myself to come around until Highway 120 was actually visible from atop the last crest. Once there I hacked up a wad of phlegm, fixed my computer, ate a bar, and we chatted for a couple minutes until Tyler rolled in, followed by the rest.

From there, after the next left turn off the east bound highway, it's straight north to State Line road. The rain came harder yet so did our resolve, and our smiles just got bigger, and our laughter louder. It was sideways as we came out of the truck stop on Randall Road, filled with hot cocoa and Snickers bars.

Soon we were rewarded, however. The crosswind was tough, and it took some resolve to stay together and not gap anyone, but by time we reached the paved bike trail at the North Chicago Metra station, the rain was gone for good, and the pavement had started to dry. 45 minutes or so later, I stopped at the entrance to Fort Sheridan to remove my rain jacket. And as we turned onto Green Bay road, we were bathed in warm sunshine.

Tyler led Diddy up to a flying John before Scott Road, and that cooked him, for then on Sheridan into Kenilworth it was just three of us. I tried a hard jump but the big man Diddy closed my gap and took the second sprint. One more roasted, for then it was just John and I going cat and mouse to B'Hai, and then cat and mouse with an indecisive minivan up the hill. Oh well, I took a cautious jump, cleared it and then gave it my all. I sat up, looked behind, and rolled off my armwarmers. It had to've been 70.

Slowly Tyler and Diddy regrouped with us, and we spun lazily back to Chicago through Evanston, a world away from the morning we'd started our ride in.

I headed straight to Susie's Drive-thru for a recovery meal that can only be eaten on days like this, even then requiring augmentation from my own fridge:



Oh, and that's not a tan-line...it's dirt.